The Adventures of Kerriann: Candolim to Om Beach, Karnataka

Karnataka and Om Beach

Our initial plan, when we had begun our adventure, had been to take the children inland to Hampi before heading across to Gokarna on the coast. Lisa and Katie had made the trip last winter and having heard their wondrous tales of huge boulders and ancient ruins, I was eager to follow in their footsteps. We talked to a few people about the best way to transport the children there, they shook their heads muttering “Very hot in Hampi, over 45 degrees, Very Hot, Very Hot!”

We reviewed the situation!

Maps were brought out, the Rough Guide consulted, train times looked up and bus routes plotted. We still wanted to head South but Hampi was no longer an option with the children. We decided to head straight for Gokana.

Next problem came the route.

We could either catch a bus from Candolim back to Mapusa and head to Old Goa Train Station to see if there was a train heading down into Karnataka or we could go to Panjim, then down to Margao where there would definitely be a train to the South. The first involved two buses and a possible train, the second involved three buses of unknown duration and a definite train.

We went for option Two!

Bus one, Candolim to Calangute terminal. With bags neatly packed, a supply of water and oranges within hands reach, we headed down to the main stop 1k from our rooms. It is not much of a main stop, more of a T junction that leads either to the Fort or to the Exclusive Resort nestling on the Cliffs. There is a sign saying 'Bus Stop' with a large dusty turning area that allows room for a bus to turn and head back down the main road, lined with its shops and restaurants.

People sat around waiting, school children in their immaculate uniforms smiled and stared as we joined the early morning commuters. Two boys with huge smiling faces and scruffy clothes kicked their small ball towards us, we kicked it back. They smiled even more and kicked it again in our direction. Soon all four children were playing happily in the road without the need of words, laughs and shouts of joy becoming the common language. School buses came and went reducing the crowd a bit. The bus we required arrived, football came to an end and with much hand shaking and waving we left our new friends to step up onto the bus.

We travelled up past the now familiar shops and cafés, pointing out places of note to each other. We passed the turning to Panjim, the huge Banyan tree, the ATM and headed on to Calangute.

Here the hustle and bustle of people on their way to work was tremendous. Buses and people thronged together, pushing, calling, hooting, whistling, moving. A sea of colour, smells and shapes. We stood as people swirled around us, enormous blanket wrapped packages balanced upon heads, shimmering sari's, crisply ironed shirts and always the sellers. “Chai, chai, chai!”, “Lady, you do little business, buy something?”. Somewhere within this medley we found bus Two, Calangute to Panjim.

The bus was already full. Our bags were stored up front as we stood with the others, scanning the seats each time the bus stopped until a place could be found..

In Panjim we entered the relative organisation of the City's Main Stop.

Supplies were re-stocked with essentials (coke?=?) before we joined the people who queued politely in a long orderly line for the tickets to Margao.

We chatted with Nelson, a well spoken man who had spent his younger years in the Merchant Navy travelling the world. He had met and married a girl from Goa and was now a Lecturer in Engineering. He chatted amicably about the huge changes in the area, looking at his watch from time to time as the queue inched its way forward. His first love was Mumbai he confessed, but his wife was from Goa so what was he to do???

We reached the ticket office just as the bus pulled in, our new friend Nelson hurrying off to get his seat as I explained the children's ages to a dubious clerk, having just asked for two half fares. Tickets in hand we settled ourselves on two seats near the back as the bus roared into life and pulled away from the station.

The trip was as non-eventful as a usual stomach twisting, gravity defying, corner hurtling and pedestrian terrorising bus ride is and an hour later we pulled into Margao with absolutely no idea where to go next!

Our driver waved us in a general north ward direction and fell back into conversation through his open window with a fellow driver (possibly to compare notes on which speed bump can be hit at 70km per hour to get the perfect airborne experience!)

We crossed the busy road circulating the roundabout ahead of us and strode purposefully through the incredible calm of the island. India has a wonderful habit of making enormous roundabouts with full size parks, complete with fountains (when they are working) and seats, in the middle. Tiny tables selling fruits, flowers, watches and lottery tickets line the walkway through the centre. We emerged back into the heat and noise of the city and crossed the far road to ask again for directions.

Waved once more in the direction of the north, we were advised to get the bus as the walk was about 3km and the children were feeling the heat. A quick bus ride left us at a sign that said Railway 300m. Sweat now seeped from every pore of our bodies, tiny rivers slithered down my spine, beads gathered in my hair, my dress was damp with the humidity and no breeze penetrated the sun baked streets of the city.

We paused briefly at an open warehouse style shop, more for the coolness of the overhead fans than the need to buy.

The heat hit us with a physical force as we stepped out into the full blast of the mid day sun, sapping our energy as we covered the final 100m to the station.

People gathered under the protection of the shade, a breeze flowed down the open tracks and swept over the platforms like a wave of bath water over already hot bodies.

Leaving the children and Peter in a puddle of moisture I went in search of information and tickets. 80 Rupees got me four tickets all the way to Gokarna!! I had spent 250 Rupees on the various buses that morning but now we were going to travel half the length of Goa and into Karnataks for £1!!!

Indian Train Stations are possible as entertaining as Indian Buses. Hand carts piled to near impossible heights were pushed past us, porters sweating and straining, while others balance overflowing baskets on their heads. Aromas of chai, samosas and other wonderful delicacies mixed with the smells of oil and diesel.

Men performed mind boggling wiring repairs in-between the tracks while powerful engines pumped out blackening fumes as they pulled 60 or more carriages loaded with anything and everything along the miles and miles of track that criss cross this amazing land.

We ate, we watched, we drank and played games. The children recited their tables, did mental arithmetic, drank more water, read from the Kindle and pointed out more and more strange sights and sounds as the clock slowly wound its way to 2pm..

Indian trains are also notoriously late! I once heard an announcement that said “The 1, something something train from wherever to somewhere else, is running 21 hours late, we are sorry for the inconvenience caused”. Today our train was sort of on time, it arrived 20 minutes early and left 20 minutes late!!

With its open windows and doors, trains are a delightfully breezy place to be in as the sun passes its zenith and the heat of the day throws itself onto the world below. Hot air rushed past us as we raced across the country. Sandwiches, chai, crisps, nuts, samosa's were sold from men as they travelled up and down the carriages, each calling out his wares, stopping briefly to serve, then moving on again, calling, calling all the time, their voices merging in harmonies to rival our singing group back in Wales.

For just over 3 hours we watched the ever changing countryside slide past. Hot dark tunnels that travelled deep into the hillsides opened up to reveal palm plantations of vast proportions.

Tiny farm huts huddled near rich green veg gardens that lay dotted amongst endless fields of dried grass. Flowing swathes of bright green rice cut into areas of parched earth. Fields of millet, golden and waving reached up towards the sun.

We reached large open stretches of water spanned by long elegant bridges, fishing vessels floating far below us. Fish eagles turned lazily in the sky above watching nets being thrown, their sharp eyes ever on the lookout for catches being landed.

On and on we travelled, the sun began to drop, the heat began to lessen, the shadows lengthening before our eyes. I think the children must have sampled something from every seller upon the train during that initial journey.

They stuck their heads out of the open door (on the 'safe' side of the train and in their fathers presence!) they looked out the glassless windows, they chatted, fell silent and chatted again.

Gokarna Road Station was reached, other white faces piled onto the train as we climbed off. A rickshaw driver approached offering us his services (for a price of course) “How much to OM Beach?” I enquired, “350 Rupees” he smiled, “Nice Beach” he added.

I do not know what it was that made me say Om Beach as opposed to Gokarna as I had intended but whatever great force was looking after me that day knew exactly what we needed. Two bags were stored on the back shelf, two went up onto the roof, the others went around Cians feet as he pushed himself to the far side of the narrow seat. Peter climbed into the middle, Angharad was positioned between Peters legs while my right buttock cheek found what was left of the back seat. We were off!

We wound our way along the tarmacked highway, around the odd pothole and up into the the hills that lay between us and the beach. Up and up we climbed, slower and slower became the rickshaw, we offered to push and laughed that Daddy really MUST loose some more weight! As we reached the top, the most amazing vista opened up before us.

A long curving beach of golden sand lay at the bottom of steeply sided woodland. Was this Gokarana I wondered.

We travelled on, past the tuning to the wonderful beach and along the spine of the hilltop.

We pulled to a stop 2K further along the road at a dusty dead end filled with other rickshaws. We stepped out of our snug quarters as dust and sand blew gently across our feet. “Rooms?” I enquired, our driver pointed to a gate, “Beach?” I smiled, he pointed straight ahead.

I had read that there were beach huts to be found along the beach and led the children, now weighted down with their bags, in the direction the driver had waved.

To say I had no idea what to expect is possible the understatement of this entire Blog. Steep steps led down to what looked like barren rocks beaten by a deep threatening sea. We began the climb down not knowing exactly where they led. The steps then turned back on themselves and opened up to a view that for a split second left me breathless.

Two beautifully curved small beaches lay before us, a tiny headland splitting them at the exact centre. Small discreet cafés were spaced out along the edge of rich greenery. Smaller thatched roofs huts nestled behind these high green bushes, virtually hidden from view.

We descended the steps as a cooling breeze softly caressed us with smells of the sea and a freshness that is altogether unique to the coast.

I left Peter, the bags and the children at the café on the headland and walked slowly along the second beach calling at the various cafés along the way asking about rooms. Each room was different and priced accordingly. Huts with totally woven walls and roofs, some solid walled and tiled roof, combinations of the two. Some came with gardens, others with communal sitting areas.